


Fracture

by Keinna



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keinna/pseuds/Keinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Jack Frost loved getting into snowball fights and starting them. He adored watching the children make snow angels and lopsided snowmen. </p>
<p>Winter did not just have to be harsh and cold, it could be fun.</p>
<p>Or... That is what he used to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cracking Ice

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so, sooooo sorry!! I know I have been away for a very long time, oh my goodness has it really been more than half a year?! I'm terrible for keeping everyone waiting so long!  
> Things got busy on my end and well, I just did not have the time to write like I wanted, but I am back! So I shall be doing my best to update weekly.  
> And also, a little update on 'Home Is Where the Heart Is', I am not entirely sure if I will be continuing that... I might try, but I had the whole thing written out when my laptop died, and ended up losing the whole story, and now I really do not know if I have the drive. I will try, but no promises darling, I truly am sorry for that.
> 
> As for this little story, I guess I should finally explain yes? 
> 
> More or less I was looking at the Kink meme again and came across this:
> 
> http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2389.html?thread=5748565#cmt5748565
> 
> And it hit me instantly. So... I am going to give it a shot, and take inspiration from the meme more than anything else. 
> 
> Also for those who loved gentleman Pitch, he will indeed be making a come back, rather strongly in this story. So please, please, enjoy darlings!

The first snowfall is always a day of fun and snowballs, offering the very first taste of winter games to the children. Jack Frost loves seeing the little ones eyes light up and cry out in delight at the sight of the delicate flurries drifting onto the ground. How they dart to rip through the closets for coats, boots, proper clothing to play for an hour or longer in the snow while parents make sure that hats are actually secured and the laces are not too loose or tight. He adores being able to play with them, participating in the snow fights, chatting happily to questions though his answers are never acknowledged. Somehow it hurts less when he can pretend.

It even helps with the pain that comes later in the day. 

After the children are finally pulled inside by insistent adults, doors locked up and the moon begins its rise into the sky, Jack knows it is coming. He does his best to patiently wait for when the sun comes back up, finding somewhere away from his pond yet still close, putting his staff against a tree and partially hidden in frost and ice. Taking in a deep breath and absentmindedly rubbing firmly at his arms, he waits. At first he hears nothing but the distant sound of owls hunting or little mammals scurrying about bravely in the cold. For a moment he thinks that maybe he is safe, that perhaps he can go back to his little slice of safety that is his pond to play on until the children wake again. 

Just as he ponders taking up his staff again does he notice the tell-tale signs. The sudden burst of heat along his cheeks that sting then the sweet smell of fresh flowers. Already the shivers are beginning but he focuses and reminds himself. 

Just until the sun comes back. 

“Hello there, Jack Frost. How have you been?”

Swallowing then turning to face a brightly colored man with flaming golden hair, he replies cheerfully, “I’m just fine, you know, having fun with the children.” The three in front of him give their own smiles, ones that he returns while keeping his hands hanging by his sides. “It’s been a while huh? How are you three doing?” Brief warmth flows through his veins at being able to talk with someone, a giddiness that is almost enough to make him laugh. Too long it has been since he has last had anyone respond to what he has to say. 

The woman in colors of crimson and orange replies, a soft look on her face, “Just fine, we apologize for taking so long in visiting you. It’s been a year correct?” He nods and goes to say something else but is cut off by a snort of the other spirit, her wild green eyes narrowing.

“Enough with the talking, that’s not what we’re here for.” Before he can manage a response a hand slams into the side of his face and he clamps his jaw together, blinking as a sharp throbbing begins in his cheek. “All he ever does his spout about having fun, enjoying the snow, well guess what Frost? That’s not what winter is about. Winter kills things. It’s cold, it’s miserable, nobody enjoys it.”

Instantly he protests, eyes wide, “But it can be fun! The kids love it when it snows, they play for hours in it and-”

“And they can get sick in it and die.” The male spirit cuts in, a dry look forming on his face. “Face it, your season isn’t wanted, it is simply needed for humans to appreciate our seasons more. That is all.” It is a struggle to breath for a moment though he manages to, pulling in the cold air into his lungs and feeling the Northern wind caress his cheeks. Still he smiles and opens his eyes to meet burning ones. 

With a shake of the head he replies in the hopes of getting them to just once see it from his point of view, “But it is needed. You just don’t understand because you all are sprites of the different seasons.” Harsh looks form on each of their faces and Jack finds his heart dropping into the deepest part of his chest. Before he can explain more or try to, a hand wraps around his neck and tosses him into a pine tree. His legs manage to support him until a dainty hand lifts his head up to meet the shifting eyes of Autumn before pain races through his body. He chokes on nothing and clamps his teeth to avoid whimpering at the feeling of needles piercing his arms and chest. She steps back with a hand full of bloody leaves, tossing them onto the ground while Summer steps forward. 

A hand pats the top of his head then a whisper fills his ears, “Stop trying to make it better for yourself Frost. You always talk and it just makes it so much worse for you.”

White hot pain races throughout his entire system as he can barely cut off the scream in his throat. Around the wind howls, pawing violently at clothes and hair, raging yet having no commands leaves it helpless to aid. Words become meaningless just as the beating and taunts do, all he can feel is heat and pain, intertwining into one living entity in his chest. Glazed ice blue eyes find the moon that stands as the only witness to this attack. Just as it always has for the past century and a half, a silent spectator. His ears ring with wordless noises that remind him vaguely of his only friend, the wind while the taste of cold copper fills his mouth. It sits on his tongue bitter as always but he does not spit it out. He smells it as well and in a detached manner watches the way it ruins his hard work, tainting the fresh snow around them. In a way it upsets him but he always reminds himself to wait, that it is so easy to cover up with a bit of coaxing of the wind. Wiping away the evidence so nobody will ever know.  
He only lets himself become aware again when the sun peeks over the horizon, blinking his swollen eyes and barely able to keep a grin away. The light keeps the darkness away and makes them stop. It always has. 

Just like every tradition on the first day of fallen snow, the others quit. Slowly he stirs enough to turn his eyes upwards to meet each of theirs and manages a bloody smile. “We’re done now right? You three can go back to your little holes until winter is done.” Anger crosses Summer and Spring while Autumn looks calm, her gaze sweeping the area. 

“Almost.” He raises a once white eyebrow, struggling to sit up as she moves around the bloody snow. The two look on impatiently though there is a curious look on Summer while the smaller sprite scoffs with arms folded over her chest. 

Words start to form until he sees her duck behind some bushes and a second later the sound of ice shattering fills the clearing. Confused over what could be frozen, Jack struggles to sit up, leaning heavily against the pine tree when the woman walks back with a hooked staff. All breathing stops and his eyes go wide, jaw going slack at his most prized possession being in her red painted hands. “W-Wait, what are you planning? You can’t!” 

She turns the aged wood in her hands a few times, wizened eyes thoughtful until they turn up to meet his. Malice is clear and without a word she wraps her fingers firmly around the hooked part, snapping it. 

A scream rips throughout the clearing as the young spirit shudders then slumps against the tree. Hands scratch uselessly at the torn shirt he wears, tears racing down his face. All three flinch at such a noise and each lose their smiles instead staring with large eyes at the sobbing boy. He trembles, coughing then sputtering, cheeks going paler than the moon while fingertips become blue and purple. The sprite that broke the staff drops it onto the ground, burned and overcome with guilt and wonderment. Then just as suddenly as the sounds start, they stop, Jack Frost lying still in the snow he worked so hard to make. 

Each glance to each other nervously, the girl with green eyes ready to dart away until it comes time to urge the flowers to grow again. Moments tick by as the sun comes up into the sky, shining bright and causing the snow to glitter prettily in crimson glory.

The blonde spirit starts to step forward when a harsh, wet inhale comes from the youngest of them, Jack slowly rolling onto his side and hiding his face in shaking arms. He makes no other noises and does not show his face causing confused, almost worried gazes to form.

Words flow into the air, white noise to the young sprite who refuses to listen. He takes in a deep breath then twists around to meet them, icy eyes furious and the winter sprite snaps, calling for the wind and the full blast of winter. Ice-laced wind shrieks and mercilessly wrapping around the three, throwing them about. They begin to scream and cry out in apology but it falls on deaf ears, still merely sounds that needs to be silenced. He is desperate for it to be quiet, not wanting to hear anything anymore, no more words, no more touches, no more hope for a friend. 

He cannot cry anymore but lets his only companion of two hundred years show his pain, let everyone that is listening, human or spirit hear the howls he has been holding in. Without a word he watches what his anger and rage does to his three tormentors, neither taking glee or happiness at their pain. Coldly watching as they get what they deserve.

When he finally lifts his hand, shakily bringing it down for the Northern wind to cease, it does though at small intervals. A few moments go by until bloody leaves, flowers and ashes remain, leaving him pleased though empty. The wind reaches for him, tender and soothing, wrapping around his battered form while picking up the pieces to his staff. He stares at the hooked end then shakily puts it like it should be though cannot find a way to mend it. His lower lip quivers at the feeling of something missing inside and curls up on himself. Without words needed his only companion cradles him and takes him to the only sliver of safety he knows, trying to soothe as he stares at the broken staff in his hands.


	2. Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never has Jack Frost really considered the thought, the chance that his very existence is wrong.
> 
> It hurts more than he would like to admit.

The blizzards come suddenly and bitter to every human, even the children finding it impossible to find joy in the once gentle snow. Instead they stare outside with wide eyes then trade nervous whispers about when it will return to normal, be soft and playful again. For nearly a week it goes on, leaving many stranded inside of their homes with at least five feet of snow covering the streets, houses and trees. Animals try to find shelter in their dens, huddling with others to keep warm though for some that is not enough, their lives ending in a cold, cruel death.

At the center of this sits a white haired boy with glazed eyes, curled up on a ice-solid pond. Lying on the frozen surface is a broken staff that he has tried again and again to fix yet cannot manage to do so. The hole in his chest feels larger than before, growing at a rate he wonders if he should be concerned about. Jack lifts his head up a little when the Northern wind ruffles his hair then pulls at his clothes. All around him is whiteness and frost that covers the rocks, trees, and ground in sheets that he admires for a moment. Only with the insistence of his only friend does he finally sit up from his position, blinking to rid the glass that clings to his eyes, rubbing at them to focus properly. He reaches out to touch the staff but stops just short of his fingers gripping the aged wood. Curling his fingers hard into the palm, unable to bring himself to touch the staff that feels alien now. “Wind.” There is a low whistle just next to his ear then another kiss from his long time companion that has been loyal for as long as he cares to remember. “I don’t want to touch it. Pick it up for me, please.” A moment of hesitation then slowly the remains of his weapon is swept up and hovers in wait for his next orders. 

Jack examines the pieces then stands up on unstable legs to find a place for them until he can figure out a way to fix it. The fear of another spirit getting their hands on the two pieces is too great with his prized possession already in splinters. The possibility that more damage can be done by another is clear on his mind, pulsing there, festering and he shudders a bit. Scanning the pond until he is in the middle of the frozen water then focuses on forcing the ice apart. It takes more effort than he would like to admit, his abilities too raw, uncontrollable without the staff he has always relied on to keep things under wraps. Violently the ice cracks underneath his feet until a small gap forms, the bottom of the pond clear, dirt and rocks obvious to see against the frozen water. Motioning with his hand, the winter spirit watches the wind drop both pieces into his pond. He takes in a deep breath then steps back as the Northern wind gathers snow and frost from the surrounding area before filling in the hole. By the time it is done there is no trace of the hiding place. Nodding and wrapping his arms around his chest he stares at the spot with a grim expression then says, “Thank you for all your help.” Again he is greeted by a soft breeze against his cheeks before there is stillness.  


With the task done, he is at a loss. 

There is no urge to bring gentle snow to the children now, no true need to watch their smiles or hear laughter. His thoughts grow bitter and cold much like the season he represents. What is the point of bringing fun to those that do not even believe in him? Not when it comes at the cost of being ridiculed and constantly picked on by other spirits that show no other interest in him. The flame in his heart is gone, probably to the hole that has been there and for a second he wonders if it will grow until there is not much of him left. Just an empty shell that only knows cruelty and harshness, just as all the other spirits and embodiments of winter are like. He is turning into those that so many whisper at the fireplace during the darker months of the year, stories that are terrifying to keep the little ones from venturing out or staying out too long. 

Stories that tell of Wendigo, lost humans that went insane and now devour those who were once their own kin, bodies black and twisted, bones protruding and painfully hungry. They search with mouths open and blood from their torn lips dripping of razor sharp fangs, where their eyes once were are black pits, searching endlessly for another meal. During the times of war is when the tales of General Winter slowly but surely trickle through the troops. Hushed whispers in their holes or cover about the man that ends more lives than metal or lead. A man that stands nearly seven feet tall, hair that is perhaps white, maybe grey, impossible to tell with the blood encrusted thoroughly in the locks. He shows no mercy, following after troops in the dead of night, armed with an axe and craving their lives to warm his skin for a flicker of a second. There are so many more tales of the horrible creatures that have teeth and claws, eyes that are lifelessly bright and eager to paint the crisp white snow crimson. Yuki-onna, Akhult, Yeti, Tizeruk, the Snow Queen, so many things all relating to winter, nearly all found in the heart of blizzards that wait so patiently to tear apart humans. 

Suddenly it dawns on him then and Jack can just barely keep upright at the thought racing through him - is he a mistake? 

He blinks slowly at such a thing then ponders over the revelation. Things seem to make more sense when he looks at it from this perspective. Why the Man in the Moon only spoke to him once to give his name, why so many avoid him like the plague or simply mock him, why he has no true believers. After all, there is no reason for any child to want to believe in something that should be cruel with fangs and a lust for blood. Looking down at his hands, the boy curls them into his palms then relaxes them, faintly wondering if he should have claws. He reaches up to feel his cheeks that hold no real warmth in them, only frigid against his own hands. Cold and dark, that is all he feels. 

Arms drop to his side, Jack stares down at his reflection in the pond, truly taking in his appearance. He looks exactly like winter with his white hair, blue eyes, pale skin that rivals the moon, a sunken expression and a haunted gaze. He does not see any warmth, any feature that could be considered trustworthy. Nothing that would remotely bring happiness to the children - or rather should.

“What do you think, wind?” The element ruffles his hair in acknowledgement as he continues peering at himself, “Was I mistaken? Should I be what everyone else wants me to be?” There is a silence then a large gust of air that knocks him onto his back, leaving him to stare at the dark sky holding many stars. He considers the response then reaches up and corrects his previous musings, “No. I’ll be what I want to be. And right now, I will show them just how bitter winter can be.” Fingertips tremble, the sound of cracking ice filling his sliver of safety as the last few words leave him, tasting of copper. Blue eyes squeeze shut and he takes in a breath then goes still, arm falling back onto the ice with a loud crack. “Are you willing to help me do this?” His only companion twists around the clearing, howling then stopping for a moment before gaining volume again though it is a weak noise. A protest that he does not really hear instead awaiting for the answer he desires. Hours could go by of this until suddenly he is wrapped up in a frigid breeze that moans and groans around him then he is cradled lightly in the arms of his friend.

His lips twist upwards into a smile that shows too much teeth. Silently he thanks the element for its unwavering loyalty, fingers petting the air that responds with gentle pressure against his hand.

“I’m lucky, did you know that?” He lets out a breathy sound, perhaps a chuckle, maybe a sob, or just a noise he cannot help. “What would I do without you?” The trees around shake and tremble by the roar of the element he speaks too. In a detached manner he watches the snow fall off, how some of the smaller plants are ripped up by the roots and tossed into their larger brothers. “There, there. It’s honestly not that big of a deal. Think of it this way, we will still cause snow days.” Blue eyes glaze over and glitter like black ice, “After all, a blizzard still brings snow during the day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a bit heavy right now, but I promise this story will get more light as I go on. Have to go through the angst to get a happy ending after all, yes?
> 
> Also a bit of a short chapter, but I hope it was somewhat enjoyable, darlings! 
> 
> I'll do my best to make the next one longer.


	3. Vicious Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings were once so easy to access, and there were so many to choose from a moments notice.
> 
> Now... Jack is not even sure if he feels.

Without his staff that still lies safely at the bottom of the pond, winters become harsh and bitter, often trailing into spring, lingering just a bit longer. Jack spreads snow and cold just as before however he has little care on if he ends up stranding travelers in a blizzard with no way out nor if he has slowly starved a town once or twice. He learns that his staff is not the source of his power like he feared at first, but rather a manner of channeling his raw abilities into something less powerful, less wild. Making it easier to create just a gentle snowfall than what he unleashes upon the lands now with the help of his only friend. 

At first nobody notices or really takes in the fact there is something wrong, many spirits just assuming that this is a phase and it will pass. He hears whispers and scoffs about how he is acting like a brat, taking out his irritation on humans just because he can. Such things that he ignores because it is so easy to see now, that they are wrong just like he had been so wrong at the beginning. The reason why he is here is not to give the children or adults an easy or fun winter since that is hardly what the season is about. No, it is about showing them how angry and harsh his element truly is.

He gets to watch those similar to him go about and catch unwary travellers in their claws and teeth, detached at the sight of blood staining the snow in thick rivers. Once he would have been repulsed at the thought, at the sight of what he is doing. Perhaps even terrified at what he has become. Now he is numb, going through the motions, ignoring those around that he sees from the corner of his eyes or that try to approach him. 

While he had taken out his anger with the first five winters, by the fifteenth year, it is simply a routine to follow. When the sun is up, he stands from whatever snowbank he made for himself, hands pressing worriedly to his chest where the hole has gotten too big yet it feels almost right, and ponders where to go. He ignores all reflective surfaces now and can barely stare into the own ice he creates. Even though he is a mistake, Jack finds it hard to stomach the way he looks now. Occasionally he will accidentally look while passing over a frozen lake or over patches of the ocean where he has created large sheets of ice. Always he cringes and turns his face away. 

Gaunt like a Wendigo, eyes dead like General Winter himself, and sickly, looking the way he feels on the inside, hollow and without the flame that once burned bright in himself. He is not entirely sure how long he has done this now, it feels like an eternity or longer. Distantly he recalls the happy memories of bringing children snow to play in and how he took pride in being the one to make them smile. How he made so many little ones throw open their doors and gasp in excitement over the sight of the first snow while parents nearly had to drag them inside to put on cloaks and hats of soft rabbit fur. Sometimes, if he is lucky, he feels that warmth again. A tiny flame around the edges of the hole that burns so much it nearly brings tears to his eyes and it almost shatters the ice covering them. Yet it is never warm enough, hot enough, to do so. Always it is snuffed out before it can manage to do so, driven away by the reminder that there is a hole there and it should not have even existed in the first place. And that is when he feels the pricks of anger, feels the need to make the blizzards all the more worse. 

A vicious cycle he neither enjoys nor loathes. Only… Does. 

He is not entirely certain where he is when he comes to from aimless wandering, the trees all looking the same, frozen and trembling due to the wind. Really if he is honest with himself there is no recollection of even walking in the first place since he never has a destination in mind. Just going where he feels he should to show what his season is meant to do before moving on to other parts of the world, the wind always offering assistance. Coming to a stop, he sighs, and looks up to see the dark snow clouds covering the sky, watching the currently gentle snowflakes fall in light currants to the ground. Reaching out with frostbitten fingers, he watches as one lands on the center of his palm, perfect and beautiful. For a moment he can admire it, take the delicate lines before he turns his hand to watch it continue its deadly descent to the ground. “Wind?”

The usual kiss on the cheeks relaxes him, reminding himself that while he may be similar to those that lurk in the distance, he is not exactly the same. He has a friend that he can rely on at all times. “We’re almost done here, wouldn’t you agree?’ There is a pause and he finds himself being blanketed in a breeze that is just warmer than freezing, squeezing him in a hug that has him going more limp in the sure hold. “I think we are too. I’m…” 

Trailing off, he tries to find the word, and suddenly is not sure what he is feeling, and for a moment fear grips him where his heart should be but is not. Jack does his best to come up with the word, searching his mind for it and everything he comes up with does not fit. Words that he has not used in an eternity, that mean nothing to him. Words like happy, excited, gleeful, eager, mischievous, all run through but none of them stick and fall away without a sound. It worries him in a way that he cannot figure out what to say how he is feeling since it dawns on him he has not truly felt in years. 

Either he feels anger or nothing, and it is the later that scares him the most. “I… I don’t know.” The words slip out before he can stop them and he moves his arms around himself in a pathetic hug. “I just don’t know anymore.” Briefly he wonders if he is sad yet again it is a word that does not fit, too emotional for a spirit that has not truly felt much of anything other than extreme anger and hate though those emotions never last for long. Sometimes he will be driven by them but never for more than two winters before it melts away and he is left fumbling with what to do other than cause harsh temperatures and snow that is often more ice. Fear will factor in as well, like it always does, fear that he truly will become just like the Snow Queen or General Winter, an entity that cares for nothing other than themselves, selfish and deadly. Already he is close, so very close to the edge, deadly and unfeeling enough to cause humans to starve in tiny villages or watch travelers surcome to the endless sleep when hypothermia and frostbite are too much for their fragile bodies. He does not want to become like them, even if he is supposed to be. That fate is terrifying even if it is meant to come true. 

“Is that what I’m supposed to become, wind? Just… Let go and be like all the others who don’t care about anything?” A hiss rushes through his ears, the Northern wind shaking and causing the trees around to groan painfully. Blinking, the winter sprite goes quiet, thinking before he reaches out, desperately, “I don’t want to.” Yet again the wind holds him, tighter than it ever has, petting his hair and pulling at his clothes to convey the same agreement. While unable to talk and not supposed to feel, not in the manner spirits and humans do, he knows that his friend has some emotions. And that is enough for him to continue on with his aimless wandering. 

Sighing he mumbles, “Keep feeling for both of us.” A soft breeze whistles against his ears and all around the trees stop their moaning instead all that remains is a gentleness to the air. He lets his weary body be supported for just a little longer before breaking away, bare feet touching the ground once more. Without a word he starts forward again, not sure where or why he is walking but just knows that he needs to. It could be moments or hours or even days that go by until he realizes that he is being followed. 

Confusion flickers for a few seconds over his face, stopping in his tracks before he turns around and faces the endless darkness that is all around. He cannot remember when it became night and a frown briefly forms on his face. Really taking in his surroundings, Jack moves until he finds a large tree to press his back into, and for a moment he is reminded of being caught and cornered. Recalls bloody leaves and the faint scent of ash before he shoves those memories away as his fingers twitch at his sides. Swallowing, he asks, “Who are you?” There is a flicker from the corner of his eye, a shadow before all the shadows grow longer and thicker, creating patterns on the snowy ground until a tall man emerges forward, seated on a large dark horse. He stares down at him with eyes that flicker gold and silver, pale fingers pulling lightly on the reigns to get the animal, one that looks like no horse he has even seen, to stop moving. 

“Pitch Black.” The clear spirit gracefully slips off his horse, giving a bow once his feet touch the ground. An action that causes a puzzled look to form and for a moment a flicker of something races through glazed blue eyes before it is gone just as fast as it came. “And if I may ask, who exactly might you be?” There is no malice from what little he can tell, only a small curious glint in those shifting eyes.

Though it does not matter to him, Jack knows that can be a double edge sword, a dagger waiting behind this being’s back. “Nobody important.” It feels so strange to talk to someone that can answer back and it puts him on edge. He recalls the last time he heard words spoken to them and how they can hurt more than any rock thrown. Fear wells up and the boy tenses up completely before shoving it aside as the air becomes heavier, snow falling down harder with bits of ice hidden within. “What do you want?” 

There is an odd expression that comes over this Pitch Black, a furrowed brow before it melts away into that same at best, curious look. “Who is to say I wished for anything? We are merely going in the same direction.” Not certain of that and about to snap at him until the smooth voice continues, “Twenty-eight miles in this direction sits the town of Trier. I happen to be going there since this winter has been causing the residents quite some panic…” A head tilt before he goes on, “I am guessing you are the cause of this.” Jack watches, debating on what to do or how to reply though finds there is no point in trying to lie. No point in denying anything since it is a rather simple truth.

“Yes.” 

A click of the tongue comes first then arms fold behind the back of the tall man, Jack realizing just how much he towers over everything, the same height of the nightmarish horse that stands at least six or so feet high. “Interesting. You must be Jack Frost then, correct?” Tension races through the entire form of the boy, and the sound of trees breaking fills the area before a flurry of ice and snow is kicked up. Rather than shielding his face, Pitch squints and watches as the winter sprite is snatched up by the wind and carried off. “... So the rumors are true then. A once happy and carefree spirit has been broken.” He pauses and stares at the footprints in the snow. “Or rather, fractured.” Turning to face the powerful nightmare that has always been by his side, he reaches up and runs a hand through the stallion’s mane. “Something to look into, even those that are fearful of others crave companionship.” 

Once more mounting the horse, he plans on continuing towards the town but stops when the sound of bells reaches his ears. Looking up, he spots golden sand and a horrific sleigh he loathes so much, and notes the direction they are going in. “I suppose I’m curious enough. And it won’t do for all of the humans to be wiped out if the Guardians are going to confront a traumatized spirit. Onwards, Caligo.” A huff leaves the horse that turns in the direction the boy ran off too and takes off, shadows following after the Nightmare King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... I can keep apologizing (and I am very sorry) but I know it won't make up for my continued absence. All I can offer is that I am dealing with severe social anxiety, that I have always been plagued with, and I've been too nervous to put things on here. Or really respond to the comments that everyone so nicely sends me. (I know it makes no sense since everyone is so lovely and so kind, and I'm so sorry darling). But I am going to therapy now so hopefully I'll have the courage to finally answer everyone and put things up like I once did.
> 
> Also I added a bit to chapter two if anyone would like to go back and reread it to make it longer.
> 
> Again I'm going to do my damnest to post things for everyone who have been waiting so long.


	4. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack can never forget the words of old that somehow hurt worse than they did when first spoken. 
> 
> Though that might be because he is turning into what was said so long ago.

Stumbling in the snow, Jack looks about, trying to figure out where he stands, fingers reaching out to pet the wind. He thanks his friend, the words just out of his mouth when the sound of bells reaches his ears and he looks up to see a sleigh that he somewhat recognizes. A small frown begins to form on his face and he debates on what to do, where to go when he is in an open field. There is a brush against his side and a whistle in his ears but he refuses to take off again, tension winding through his body. 

Snow is kicked up by both the sleigh and a hole in the ground until four spirits stand in front of him, each armed and each looking wary. It annoys him and in a distant way, angers him, that they dare to have such expressions on their faces. They are cornering him in an unfair battle, four against one, yet they stare as though he is a caged animal about to snap the chains. The wind curls protectively around his body, now hissing, loudly, at those that have weapons that are ready to be drawn. Not saying a word, he waits for them instead to make the first attempts at conversation, eyes flickering about to see where the best opening is. 

“Jack Frost. You cause trouble and have been killing needlessly.” His face twitches as a hand presses against his chest where the hole is, an unconscious reaction to the tingling numbness that throbs at the mentioning of death. It feels wrong, and he almost is sad to think of those he has watched die without a word or helping hand.

Yet just when those feelings start to come to the forefront, they disappear with the next words spoken, this time by the Pooka rather than the large bearded man. “Ya have been out of control, ignoring everyone else’s holiday just so you can have your fun and piss off everyone!” A boomerang is held in his direction, green eyes glaring hard into his glazed ones and Jack relaxes, the numbness settling as it always does. His shoulders twitch and quietly he begins to pet the air, letting them say what they want but not really listening. The words are clear to him but they do not stick, washing over him then receding like a tide. In the back of his mind he knows he should listen, yet… Finds it is too tiring to do so. “Pay attention to me, when I’m talking to ya!” The yell is sharp and causes a flinch, the snow becoming heavy with ice and raining down, hard, on all of those around.

Jack swallows and his hands shake even as he tries to remind himself that he can get away, it is easy to with the Northern wind after all, but fear claws at the hole in his chest. Threatening to make it bigger, a void that will swallow him until he is nothing but a husk of a dead boy that goes about to cause pain. A rabid animal that needs to be put down so that others can live a happy life rather than having it end abruptly and without reason. He closes his eyes and wants to go home, back to his pond to curl up and not be seen again. “Jack…?” 

He opens his eyes, not knowing when they were closed and slowly looks over to the woman calling him. She is beautiful with delicate feathered wings and wide violet eyes, fluttering nervously about, towards him then back to her friends. Blinking, he recalls that this is the Tooth Fairy, and that he used to love seeing the little miniatures of herself going about, collecting teeth from underneath pillows and blankets. “What do you want?” He repeats the same question he did to the one known as Pitch Black and stares, wanting to know why he is being bothered. Why this day he is the greatest threat in the world to get these four to come to him, ready for battle, when there are other spirits like him. Others like the Snow Queen and General Winter, that have been around for longer, are older and colder than himself, maiming and killing without thought. 

It seems that none of them know what to say until the large rabbit sputters and snaps, “To see why you’ve been killing, why else would we be here?!” He folds his arms and glares, eyes harsh and unforgiving. 

“Why?” The word comes out before he can stop it, and he opens his mouth to continue when the large man steps forward, a grim look on his face.

“It is as Bunny said, here to see the reasoning for such behavior, why a spirit such as yourself has turned cruel and uncaring.” 

For a moment, there is an urge, one he has not felt in so long, and a slow chuckle starts in the back of his throat that builds bit by bit until he is laughing. He cannot recall the last time he has, and it feels nice until the boy notices that something is not quite right about it. He cannot stop, and it is not light-hearted nor does it make him feel better. Instead the sound leaving his throat is harsh and bitter, similar to the way ice cracks when too much weight is put on it or shatters into thousands of pieces, glorious but heart wrenching. And he finds it impossible to stop. 

By the time he gets a hold of himself, Jack is bent over, arms hugging hard around his chest and the ice over his eyes is worse than before. Taking in a few deep breaths, he manages a sentence, quiet and dull, “Cruel…? Is that the word everyone uses for me?” He stares at the snow, admiring it before finally looking up to the rest of them, “I’m not cruel…. I’m merely doing what everyone thinks I should be doing.”

Tooth is the one to ask first, beating her friends to it, “What on Earth do you mean, Jack? You used to be kind and gave the children gentle snow days!”

Anger rushes through his being, and he cannot help the glare that forms on his face, a dark and ugly look that does not suit him. “I’m a winter spirit. I’m not supposed to be fun or kind. This,” he motions to himself, “is how everyone wants me. Just like others of my season, I was being naive and blind before so I fixed it.” The others stare at him and for once he wants to scream at them, like he did so long ago, and demand what else could they want from him. First he did what he enjoyed doing, making snowballs and gentle winter wonderlands for the children but that only caused him to be bullied and hurt. So he did what was demanded of him, he changed into what he is now. A spirit that does not really care if others live or die in his snow, merely a silent observer when it happens, watching with glazed eyes as humans and animals fall into the eternal slumber.

The only one not to talk gestures and waves his hands, enough for tired eyes to finally focus on him. He is a short man that is seemingly made out of pure gold and a kind face. Strange sand swirls above his head, making different shapes that are slow to get whatever he wishes to say across. The images of leaves, flowers and a sun, then lastly a broken in half snowflake form causing the boy look away. He hugs himself tighter, understanding what is being said, the references to the spirits that he killed so long ago. Rather than acknowledging it, he remains silent, and stares at the ground, missing the sad, helpless look the smallest man makes. 

“Tch! Nobody is causing you to be this way! Ya are the one that decided to be so, even if you were bullied ya should have-”

“Should have what?” He whispers, the snow now turned into sleet. “I took care of them. I didn’t want to kill them but guess what? I HAD to kill them.” One of his arms moves to curl around his stomach, where burn marks are forever etched into his skin, at times throbbing on a too hot day. A small smile forms and he looks up, “What? Were you four going to save me? A lowly spirit that has been ignored since the beginning of his existence? You protect children. The Guardians of Childhood.” He chuckles again but it trails off, cracking and his shoulders slump and he finishes, “I’m a nobody. Don’t try to defend yourselves or say I should have done something else. You weren’t there, and I was.” In a way, even though he is upset at the thought of the rabbit being so high and mighty about things, he does not blame them. After all, they do not have a reason to go around and look out for every little spirit that comes into existence. He has seen, knows even, spirits come and go like little flickers of flames that are quickly snuffed out for one reason or another. Others killing them or sometimes they just wither away from pain or because children and people that once believe in them no longer do. And he never tried to help them either. 

A voice drifts over the falling ice, shattering the silence of the four and makes them hold their weapons up high, “Why indeed would you four bother with anything that isn’t children or your holidays?” Pitch Black calls out as he slips off his stallion, silvery gold eyes scanning the scene in front of him.

North’s expression grows pinched and he growls, pointing a sabre in his direction as the King of Nightmares moves through the snow at an easy pace. “Why are you here?” A thoughtful look crosses the face of the newcomer, his eyes flickering from one being to the next before finally landing on the winter sprite. 

His words are simple, “Why not? I might as well be. At least as a neutral party to this, or leaning more on Jack’s side.” He comes to stand between the two groups though closer to the winter sprite as a fanged grin forms on his face. “I can at least try to even the playing field of two against four rather than four against one.” 

The only woman sputters, “It’s hardly like that at all! We’re just concerned and want to know why a good spirit has suddenly turned to such violence!” 

“I bet you had something to do with this, didn’t cha?” Bunnymund points his weapon in the direction of the King who scoffs, expressing becoming dull while the shadows around flicker, threatening to grow in agitation.

“Yes. Because I cause all of the world’s problems. How original of you.” Jack shrinks away from the golden gaze that focuses on him, feeling so naked, so open to this male. He wonders if the hole in his chest can be seen and grips the fabric of his shirt. “If you were so concerned as you say, Toothiana, then coming after a spirit that has clearly been through trauma with drawn weapons and harsh words is an interesting way of showing it.” She winces and her feathers ruffle then wilt against her body, looking helplessly at the boy who refuses to look at anyone other than the ground. He reaches out and pets at the air, relieved when the Northern wind curls around his fingertips, pressing up against his body in a motion of comfort. 

Sandy waves his hands again, demanding for attention that have most eyes on him again. He makes rapid symbols that are directed at Pitch who waits patiently for them to be done, head tipping to the side as he crosses his arms behind his back. “But Sandy! What good would that do?” The leader of the four cannot help but demand, frowning as he looks between the winter sprite and their long enemy. 

Pitch cannot help a small amused look and recalls why he gets along the best with the small man who is his complete opposite. “Yes, leaving would mean that the four of you would keep an already fractured boy from completely shattering.” 

Jack blinks and turns his attention onto the five around him, “You talk as though I’m not here.” The taller being goes to speak, opening his mouth, when the ever worried Tooth Fairy has to say her piece with her usual wide-eyed look.

“But you’re not well enough, Jack, to make such decisions…. You’re not supposed to cause such violence, winter kills things but….” The rest of the sentence he cannot hear, the words meaningless to his ears. For a moment he can only stare at her, fingers frozen in the air as seemingly ancient words run through his head. “Jack?”

_Guess what Frost? Winter kills things. It’s cold, it’s miserable, nobody enjoys it._

_Your season isn’t wanted, it is simply needed for humans to appreciate our seasons more._

“Jack!” He flinches at the yell and clasps his hands over his ears, wanting the words to stop and bites his lip. 

_The kids can get sick and die, and it would be all your fault._

_Stop trying to make it better for yourself Frost._

_Stop kidding yourself. Why would anyone want to play with you? Or talk to you? You’re a nobody, some sad little spirit that isn’t worth the breath._

“Jack, stop!” 

_Face it. You’re a monster._

_Just like those Wendigo, when are you going to start ripping out hearts and eating them?_

_Or what about stealing the breath of soldiers just trying to protect their people?_

_You only look human._

_You’re not._

“JACK!” Blue blood pours down his chin, his lip broken and swelling though he does not feel it. Suddenly hands are on him, and he is forced to look up into a pair of golden eyes that glint in the darkness.

A voice, soft, oddly so, whispers to him, “Breathe Jack.” He sucks in air that burns his lungs, almost too cold for him and the ice in his eyes cracks then builds up again. Weakly he shakes his head and tries to tug his wrists out of large hands, scared when he cannot recall how they were captured. Around him he realizes there is a sharp howl of the wind as ice and snow rain down hard, a blizzard churning, the sun no longer able to be seen. The hole in his chest throbs and only one thought races through his mind. 

He needs to go home.

Away from this soft touch and glittering eyes, hide away and never be seen again. “Let go…” His voice cracks halfway through the simple sentence, and the Nightmare King only frowns and does not do as he asks. Panic rushes through him and he suddenly finds the will, yanking his arms away, “LET ME GO!” Jack stumbles back but never falls to the ground, the Northern wind abandoning the task of helping the blizzard, instead cradling the distressed boy and whisking him off to his only haven. 

The moment that Jack is gone is the moment everything stills, calming and Pitch shakes his head and looks about. Trees are strewn about the clearing, ripped from their roots and birds lay frozen in their nests. He slowly turns towards the Guardians, each of their faces pale with blue or purple fingers, and slowly cannot help but smirk. “This is why you do not corner something that is wounded beyond your ability to understand.” 

North is the one that manages to say something even with teeth clattering, “What would you know about things such as this?”

The King lets out a whistle, watching as his stallion easily makes his way through the snow, waiting until he is close enough to swing into the saddle. Running a hand through his hair, he glances to the ever oblivious four and says as he parts, “Many victims fear more than any other being you can imagine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for being patient! This story is a bit personal for me just considering the themes that will be going into it. PTSD, anxiety, and depression are all very serious matters that will be shown as realistically as I can. And to anyone and everyone that has those conditions or similar ones, please know you're not alone, and you can find the support you deserve.
> 
> I do promise that things will get better for Jack. And Pitch will indeed court him though once Jack has gotten better. So this story will probably be a bit longer than Child of the Moon. Maybe 25-30 chapters.


	5. Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has no idea how deep the hole goes, and in some manners he is scared to find out. 
> 
> He would never admit it, but he is scared of being alone in the cold depths of winter and ice. 
> 
> Though soon he will realize that even in the coldest of places, there is company.

He never expects to feel the heat nor the water that crashes over his body. For a moment he is in a blind panic, clawing at the water until he finds himself laying on his back in the lukewarm water of his pond. Blinking he looks around, water dripping from his bangs as he stares up at the moon, only the sound of rippling little waves and startled owls filling the night air. The Northern wind lets out a quiet noise, one that has him shaking his head at the apology and is too tired to move from the water. Both of them have used so much energy in the past day, and he would take landing in the pond any day over being dropped against the small outcroppings surrounding it. 

Jack sighs and lets his eyes flutter shut to take comfort in the silence. It is thick, blanketing everything around and he can just make out the sounds from the town that have begun to creep up on his home. So far the humans have not found it, yet, though that is only because of his presence. The moment he spots their machines to cut down the forest surrounding his home, he stirs up the wind and the fury of winter. Sometimes he does so in the middle of summer, causing most of the locals to give up on trying for expanding their town and scoffing at any housing developer that tries. The boy does not want anyone to know where he lives, though he cannot be seen by humans he fears that his staff would be found. Found and further damaged or worse, a thought that makes the blue blood in his veins freeze. It is the one thing he hopes that can be repaired, that just perhaps if it is then his heart would come back.

An overwhelming need to check sweeps his mind and without a thought he takes in a deep breath then plunges into the dark depths. While not the deepest body of water, it is enough to make it difficult to see but he knows just where to look. His fingers pat about the rocky bottom until he finds the broken staff. For a moment he debates on just leaving it in its safe place though cannot bring himself to, swimming back to the surface.

His old friend greets him, sweeping him up and placing him onto the shoreline so that he can stare at what had once been his tool for causing gentle winters. Slowly he places the cracked pieces together, laying the staff in front of him. The ancient wood has not rotted or decayed, instead it has only darkened with time, now practically black and still as useless as ever. On most days when he is overcome with the need to pull out his once beloved staff from the depths he tries to piece it back together. Often spending hours sitting without fail, trying to use ice to urge the splintered wood to form into a solid piece. However tonight he has no urge to. Instead he stares at the wood in front of him and wonders if he will ever hold it by his side or use it to create the gentle and delicate frost designs he once loved. 

Pale fingers run over the surface, making patterns of swirls and snowflakes, a dull look forming on his face as he does so. The run in with the Guardians have only reminded him of who he once was. It is not something he often thinks of, preferring to push it away from his mind since that seems so much easier than actually thinking about it. To remember who he once was only causes him to recall other things. Harsh words and burns that still mar his body to this day, dark scars on his chest that have never really gone away. With a sigh, he bows his head, staring at the staff, one that holds so much meaning yet burdens him. A reminder to a time that is so long ago he wonders occasionally if he made it all up. If he has always been this way, and the memories of being free and joyful are all an illusion his mind has made up to cope with being what he is. A way of reassuring him there is a chance, no matter how small, that he could become that boy with the big smile and light laughter again. Shaking his head as he stands up and begins to walk around the pond, folding his arms over his chest as he hunches over, feeling more lost than ever. 

The Northern wind lets out a low whistle that causes him to shrug and mumble, “I’m fine. Just… Thinking about what all happened today.” He keeps walking, refusing to stay still since he feels the moment he does is the moment his body will shut down completely. Too much energy has been used to get away from strange spirits, his limbs heavy as he forces himself to continue on. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” He chuckles, a broken sound leaving his throat, “It’s been how many years and now they’ve suddenly noticed? All of a sudden they want to talk to me?” A sneer forms on his face, an ugly look as he hunches over more, feeling the need to guard what little of his previous self there is. If there is anything of the happy Jack Frost left in his body and mind. 

Closing his eyes, the boy sighs again, coming to stop before his staff before he picks it up. For a moment he debates on toying with it some more, trying to figure out just what he needs to do in order to make it work, to fix it. Anger spikes in his mind though and with a glare, he throws the wood back into the pond. It bobs up and down for a moment before slowly sinking into the water. There is a second where he feels regret, panic, but forces himself to relax, knowing that it is safe there. It has been for so many years and will continue to be. Still the nervous feeling is too real and without much though he slams the heel of his foot against the shore, watching as the water instantly freezes over. His body nearly slumps over and it is only with the help of the wind does it keep him from falling over completely, a gentle embrace helping him to remain on his feet. 

Jack murmurs, “They’ll be back won’t they, wind?” Glazed eyes stare at nothing as he continues, “For once I want the world to swallow me up. At least then I won’t be bothered when all I want to do is what I’m supposed to.” Scoffing he looks up to the moon and says, “Winter isn’t a gentle season. I don’t see why everyone feels it should be.” He pulls away from his friend that lets out a mournful noise though he ignores it, intently on laying down and resting until he is ready to face the next day. He finds his usual spot when he comes home, underneath a tall evergreen tree that is next to a wall of rock, perfect for hiding away from everything. It takes a few moments for him to cause snow rather than ice to form around his usual sleeping area, and once it does, he lays down and buries his face into his arms. Sleep takes longer than he cares to admit but the moment it is achieved is the moment it is a sweet distraction, his dreams about better days and when the hole in his chest never existed. Days he longs to have back even though he tries to convince himself that they are long gone and will never return. 

Glittering silver-gold eyes take in the scene before him, a thoughtful look forming as Pitch Black leans against a sturdy oak tree. After dealing with the Guardians and laughing at their misfortune, he found himself too curious to ignore the winter sprite known as Jack Frost. The Nightmare King usually would not find himself so encaptured with the idea of a little spirit that has been hurt by others, yet it is a hard thing to walk away from. Not when it is so clear that this boy has not simply gone through the usual hurt of being overlooked but bullied and pushed to an actual breaking point. It resonates too closely for his own comfort. 

Briefly ancient memories trickle through his mind, ones of being accepted by a man with white hair and shining eyes, his complete opposite yet they were brothers. He making up the darkness of the world and all of its woes while Tsar being the essence of light and could heal with just a whisper or touch. Those thoughts of long ago were bright times that became corrupted over the ages until Pitch stands as he is now, still on this world while Tsar stays above, hovering in silence and mournful regret. As always he turns a blind eye to the bright orb in the sky, never having acknowledged the moon since it formed all those centuries ago. 

He forces his mind away from such thoughts, and back onto the boy at hand, knowing how it feels to be ridiculed by others. As he watches the manner that Jack curls up against the tree, he finds himself wondering if it is really worth attempting to ease this spirit. Doubt casts a shadow over his thoughts yet he recalls the defeated look on the other’s face, how accepting he was of his fate and feels it is hardly an acceptable expression. No, he decides to himself, there is no reason for Jack Frost to become how he was for so long. Lost in pain and misery, feeling the stinging wounds of betrayal and lashing out at everything. The Dark Ages were the time that Pitch Black took out his own feelings on the entire world, not caring in the least how many died or suffered, only so long as the world itself could see his pain. See the aftermath of his brother’s actions. 

He feels it will be a difficult thing to do, yet not impossible. Though being ignored and bullied to the point of becoming uncaring is cruel, a fact that has his lips pulling away to reveal sharp fangs, Jack is not broken or shattered. Perhaps beginning down that road which spirals into oblivion and the abyss, however the young spirit has not begun that journey. And if the Nightmare King has anything to say about it, he will not traverse that path. Though he is confident that even if he did, he could be brought back without the means of running a blade through his frozen heart. After all, he has traversed Hell and beyond, into the cold darkness that no other dares to mention in conversation or even acknowledges. If he is able to do so and come back, then insuring that another does not take the same path he did should not be impossible. 

He moves from the trees, ignoring how the wind hisses, and recalls the look of the staff he saw being thrown into the lake, replicating it easily with shadows, and leans it against the tree. Once done he turns and leaves, deciding to watch from a distance and figure out how to approach the sprite without frightening him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon enough Pitch and Jack will be interacting regularly, and hopefully Jack will start to feel better with having a friend. At least, so long as the story goes as I have planned right now.
> 
> But no matter what, there will be a happy ending. I promise. I might make angsty and sad tales but I can never let them end on that note. Thank you so much for sticking with me and reading, darlings!


	6. Offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea of having company, friendly yet distant company, is so foreign.
> 
> Especially when that company makes offerings without any strings attached to them.

Waking up is more difficult than he remembers, still feeling drained and for a moment he just lays in the snow. With a low sigh, he closes his eyes before finally getting up, his body aching. Maybe because of the ground or the events from yesterday, he does not know. Still, he knows he should do something even if it is aimless wandering and debates on where to go as he walks to the edge of the pond. Brushing off the snow in his hair, Jack rubs at his eyes next to rid of the crystals in their corners. 

He peers about but pauses, blinking, then relooks about his little haven. He notices that something does not fit, too dark among the stark white background that his pond is constantly in. He finds it after another look but has no idea how to react. Leaning against the tree is a staff, and his breathing stops, unable to recall how to draw air into his lungs. The curve on the top is the same, the worn and weathered wood looking almost brittle against the tree but he knows it is strong, able to control the elements of ice and snow without splintering. Tears well up in his eyes, thinking that just maybe the hole in his chest will close up now, that perhaps he can go back to happier days. Days that even though he only remembers in faint dreams, knows happened. They are so long ago but he believes in the depths of his mind that just maybe he can go back to a better time. Shakily he stumbles over to the weapon but is scared to touch it, worried that it is a mere figment of his imagination. That he has cracked in more ways than he could ever fear, his mind unable to cope with the crushing silence of winter or the knowing that he is meant to be alone. Pale, almost blue fingers tremble as he reaches out to touch but stops just short. His chest clenches in faint pain before it is washed away by the numbness he has become used to.

Jack realizes that it is not his staff. 

The color is all wrong, black as night, the real reason why it stood out so easily from the rest of the environment. The hooked end is a bit too curved, more of a scythe than a gentle hook, and the more he stares the more he can see every detail that should be there is not. Slowly he takes it into his hands and finds that the texture is wrong. It is grainy in a way that feels like sand rather than wood, and lighter than it should be. His shoulders slump as he stares at the mocking thing in his hands, feeling even worse than before, and just wants to crawl back into his nest to sleep.

Suddenly anger ripples throughout the sprite, tired blue eyes hardening with rage. He wants to break it, shatter this thing for mocking him and his grip tightens to snap it when frost forms under his hands. His eyes widen and in surprise he drops it, scrambling back against the oak tree as though burned. Confused and breathless, Jack does not know what to do or even how to react, unable to recall the last time he could make frost designs. Tremors race through his body, unable to understand how this fraud is able to channel his abilities. After staring for another minute or two, he reaches out and touches it with one hand, watching with baited breath as the same event happens. He stands up, running his fingers about the staff, glazed eyes big with wonder, lifting it up and touches the oak with the hooked end.

At first nothing happens and doubt begins to creep up when the first little swirls of frost starts to bloom. Waiting with baited breath as for the first time in years he feels eager, swallowing then tries his best to urge the frost to become something more. It takes more concentration than he can remember but he is determined, feeding bits of energy through the staff until the swirls grow into ferns and tiny flowers. He keeps up until his arms grow tired of holding the strange wood against the tree, and it is only when the muscles begin to spasm underneath his skin does he finally step back. Though only encasing barely half of the trunk, there is a feeling of pride that he recalls being able to make art. There is feeling in his chest, what it is, he has no idea, but it is almost comforting, the emptiness a just a bit less obvious. 

Putting a hand up to the trunk, he looks at what he has made, feeling tired but it is not the usual bone weariness from yesterday. “I can still do it.” He whispers to himself and to his only friend that ruffles his hair, perhaps proud or just maybe excited. Jack looks back down to the foreign object in his hands and wonders just who would make anything, especially a staff for him. One that is an almost replica of the one that rests at the bottom of the pond. It dawns on him then that he had been followed back to his home and fear rips through his body. One of the Guardians know where he lives, has disturbed the only safe place he has, a distressing thought. Before this can cloud his mind though he notices that this staff is not one that would be made by any of them. 

A thought that causes him to pause and really look at the gift he has been given. The Sandman would never make such a dark thing, Jack can only picture the smiling man creating a staff from his golden sand. It is easy enough to cross out Bunnymund, the rabbit having a healthy loathing for him. As for Toothiana, it is impossible to picture her making anything, not without making it colorful in one manner or another. Which leaves North but as he runs one hand about the grainy wood, he finds it does not fit either, not with how simplistic it is. Besides, he is on the naughty list, always has been and more than likely always will be with how he has been acting for the past however many years. Brow furrowing in confusion, his mind races until one figure pops into his mind, a tall being with silver-gold eyes and a sharp smile. A name forms before he can stop it, “Pitch Black…?” 

“I was almost expecting you to break my little offering in half.” Tension races through his body before he turns toward the sound of the voice, staff held up defensively. Before him is the Nightmare King who tips his head to the side with a calm expression on his face. 

Jack hesitates, not really knowing what to do with this or how to react, but slowly he allows his arms to fall to his sides. Looking to the gift that he did not ask for, he asks, “Why did you make this for me?” Glazed eyes meet constantly shifting ones with a frown, “And you followed me to my home.” He means for his tone to be defensive or even annoyed yet it is difficult to form those emotions when he is so confused, curious even. “You didn’t even try to give me a lecture or snap at me.”

“Well I am hardly like those four fools. I see no point in cornering someone like yourself who has technically done no wrong.” Lifting his hands up, Pitch shows his palms with a chuckle, “Yes, I did follow. However I saw no reason not to after you left the way you did, wouldn’t want you to end up in the ocean, Jack.” 

Eyes narrowing, the sprite repeats in a dull tone, “Why did you make me this?” Trees begin to sway from the wind that makes its presence known, whistling as it curls around the boy under its protection. Feeling both comforted and relieved to has his friend near, Jack feels confident enough to lift the hooked end of the staff toward this odd man. “Not many would bother with a winter spirit.” Even though the words ring true, in the depths of his mind, there is a part of him that cannot help but be in awe. Unable to help the amazement at finally talking to someone that does not seem determined to yell at him, degrade him, or judge him. Still, the boy is cautious, reminding himself that this could be a fickle thing, a passing interest that could be gone in the next moment. He is after nothing that special, a broken spirit that has been pushed over the edge without much hope of coming back from the dark road he is traveling. 

A polite cough brings his attention back onto Pitch, gaze sharpening, and the Nightmare King gives a smile. It is not quite a nice one, having too many teeth that are all a bit too sharp yet it is not threatening. Not in the way a Wendigo smiles before trying to rip out the hearts of half-frozen travellers or like General Winter when he finds soldiers huddling together in their fox holes. Abnormal, yes, yet there is a glint in the man’s eyes that are enough for Jack to relax and lower his new staff to his side. “Thank you. As for why I made it for you, the question is, why not?” The answer is enough for his brow to furrow and he opens his mouth, ready to argue, “You lost a piece of you, or rather, what you believe to be a piece of yourself in that staff you keep hidden.” Pitch points to the black staff, “That, while not the same, could help in what you want back so desperately.” The idea of the hole in his chest being healed so easily makes a scowl come onto his face, finding the whole idea laughable at best.

Stubbornness burns on his face, the ice on his eyes melting away, giving a peek of the bright blue eyes underneath, “It won’t. It’s not the same.” 

Again, that same expression, calm with a hint of amusement comes onto the King’s face. “Is that so.” Gold-silver eyes shift to focus on something behind him, and while Jack does not want to turn, he cannot help but look over his shoulder. “I would disagree if the frost you managed to create is anything to go by. Tell me, Jack, how long has it been since you’ve managed anything gentle? Beyond the blizzards and freezing snow?” Tightening his grip on the staff, he shrugs, and turns his gaze onto the ground. 

“Doesn’t prove anything. And it still doesn’t explain why you would make me this.” 

“No, but it is a sign.” There is a pause, a long enough one for the winter spirit to look up albeit sullenly, “It’s possible that I see some of myself in your… Situation of sorts. So I saw no reason not to.”

He can only stare at the man for a long period of time before looking back to the staff, face growing blank. “I owe you a debt then.” Ice builds over his eyes again, and the boy tosses the gift toward the man who blinks as he catches it. “I don’t want it. I can barely make much of anything with frost, anyway. So there’s not much point in keeping it.” His earlier accomplishment seems sullied now and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. At the very least he is glad he had not snapped his apparent gift in half, such an act would no doubt upset a cunning man. 

He turns and nearly jumps back at the sight of Pitch being in front of him as the staff is being pushed against his chest. Eyes widen, hands clumsy in finding a decent grip, “No, Jack. You do not owe me anything. Don’t go assuming things about others, it’s rude.” Once more the Nightmare King wears that dangerous smile on his face, “I do not assume such things over your situation, do not be so quick to judge my motives or reasons. It is a gift without strings or a puppeteer at the end. Take it.” Jack can only stare as the man turns and leaves towards the edge of the forest, shadows lengthening and reaching out to meet their ruler. In the next blink, Pitch Black is gone, the only trace of him ever coming to visit is the staff being clutched too tightly by pale hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly things are picking up, the next chapter will be more of Pitch and Jack talking and interacting. Hopefully with Jack being a little less hostile once he gets use to the idea of having a staff that functions just like his old one.
> 
> He's trying to adjust, it's just hard.
> 
> I hope I'm doing an alright job on these heavy subjects, thank you darlings for reading!


	7. Crimson Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underneath a bloody sky, Jack slowly comes to realize that not all company is bad.
> 
> And just maybe, some have scars. While not similar to his own, they are just as deep, if not deeper.

To say he tries to ignore the staff would be an understatement. Though he lets it rest near his nest, just above his head, he does little else with it. For the most part he manages to busy himself with his little safe haven, sometimes breaking open the ice to take out the pieces of his true staff and examining it. Feeling how right it is in his hands and trying to urge the pieces together. Never would he admit it, but once or twice he has compared the two side by side. Taking in all the differences and similarities between the two and not knowing what to do with the latter. 

Acknowledging that they look rather similar to each other would be admitting that Pitch Black put more thought than he should have into making a copy. Those are the times where he has to hastily toss the staff back into the water and bury it with sheets upon sheets of jagged ice, then a thick layer of snow. Just needing to insure that nobody else’s prying eyes can take in the ruined pieces and try to further destroy them. While he knows that he is paranoid over the idea of anyone putting their hands on seemingly useless hunks of wood, the thought is enough to send him into a frenzy. One that entails him going about the nest, making it deeper and fluffier with snow, then pacing around the pond while pulling at his hair, or anything else to keep his mind occupied. He thinks about leaving when those ideas take root, taking off towards Europe or the tall mountains in Canada but always he hesitates, the words sticking in his throat when he goes to call for the wind. Every time his eyes turn back onto that damned black staff, and he finds he cannot afford to leave it there. Technically he has no true attachment to it. 

Yet…

There is a horrible panic that in the back of his mind, just a whisper that grows louder and louder until his head is filled with screaming. Sounds that are familiar yet not, his voice and shattering ice rattling about until he shoves the idea of moving off to another place. He feels weak, pathetic, for letting an object, what is supposed to be a gift make him so worried and anxious. Jack cannot stop it though, since there is always one thought. 

What if someone finds it, and snaps it in two? 

Each time that question flutters through his mind like a caged bird, he drops next to the staff and just stares. In some ways he knows it is completely silly. This staff, this thing, has no control over him, but his hand always goes to his chest. Pressing over the hole that aches with bitter pain while the taste of ash and copper fill his mouth in memory. He is terrified that someone will come across his home, and find it then laugh about the strange stick on the ground. Throw it around some or use it as firewood, or out of boredom simply break it in half. He is so scared that it will hurt again. That the dull pain will flare up up, and his chest will be ripped open, further, than it ever has been before. 

So he sits before the staff, not touching it since he put it in the snow, and stares, not sure what to make of it or what to really do. Within his bones the song of winter swirls about, wanting to be released in the form of anything. Storms, blizzards, or even the more delicate crafts of soft snow or delicate frost decorations, anything to ease the urge. It is more difficult than he cares to admit to ignore the call. With a long sigh, Jack bites his lip and reaches out, fingers about to touch the grainy wood before his hand snaps back. Cursing to himself, he stands up, turning his back and runs his hands haphazardly through his hair and clutches the white strands.

Minutes tick by and he recalls the look on the Nightmare King’s face, that dangerous expression that held no true threat to it. The way the staff had been shoved against his chest, and the words of how there is no reason to fear it. “A gift.” He murmurs to himself then looks down again. The call to bring snow is too much and with just another few seconds of hesitation he finally bends down. Shy fingers wrap around the staff, and he holds it up to stare, debating, then with a sigh, unable to keep himself any longer to his haven, calls for the wind to take him towards Canada. At the least, it is not far from his home compared to the other places he could go, a thought that only provides a tiny bit of comfort. His friend is there, sweeping him up before he is rushed off, the staff hanging limply in his grasp. 

It takes him nearly a week to use it beyond that first time, when a Wendigo is snapping razor sharp fangs at him, hooked claws reaching for his cool flesh. Though lightweight, the staff is good to swing and breaks the creature’s jaw, sending it sprawling into the snow with a howling shriek. Jack would never admit it, but he is relieved that he took it with him so far north, feeling better with having some protection that is not heavy ice or blizzards that drain his energy and leave him exhausted. 

Then there is a moose that he nearly gets trampled by, and using the hooked end helps him to climb the trees, out of the way of the massive animal. The Northern wind lets out a soft whistle of apology and brushes his cheeks, not that he really minds. 

The next time it comes in handy when a fox scratches at the surface of a shallow pond, desperate for water rather than the snow around them. He did not really think about it, merely cracking the staff against the frozen sheet to splinter and crack it, causing a surprised yip. The animal nearly ran off until it saw open water, then with wary amber eyes leaned forward to sip from the cool water. Jack did not think much of it, wandering, and continued on his way, his grip a little firmer on the wood.

Slowly he begins to grow more comfortable with having something in his hands again, using the staff to balance on or even just lean against. It becomes a comforting presence, one that he still keeps very close to him in both sleep and consciousness. Sometimes he will run his fingers over it when the Aurora Borealis is playing in the sky above, gorgeous colors of green and red rippling across the blanket of stars. One night he uses it to completely freeze over a large portion of the Beaufort Sea, though the ice is nowhere near an even sheet of ice nor smooth, it is enough. He stares up at the sky and walks on the ice he created until he is in the middle then sits down, laying back and lets the lights wash over him and the ice. It is beautiful in ways he cannot hope to explain and for the first time in a while he feels nothing, but not in an empty way. Almost as though he is at peace, and he spends the entire night there, not moving an inch, not closing his eyes. 

It is when it is well into the middle of the night when he is visited by Pitch Black. The being simply appears next to him, standing a few feet away and looks up at the lights. “May I join you?”

Flinching at the sudden voice, Jack is shocked to see the male, having been at least a week and a half since the last time. He stares before realizing that he should answer and is a little wary but finally settles on nodding, then mumbling, “If you want.” The King says nothing and takes a seat, something that the sprite finds odd, to see such a regal being willingly sitting on nothing more than a block of ice. Pitch does not seem to really care though, his silver-gold eyes trained upwards as he neatly arranges himself with crossed legs and hands resting lightly on his knees. Once he is settled, and does not seem that interested in talking once more, Jack lets his eyes turn back to the sky. The colorful bands of light have become redder, some bits of orange and yellow caught in them as well. Still it is a sight to see, and one that he does not plan on looking away from.

Minutes stretch into a few hours before words break the comfortable silence that has stretched with only small interruptions from waves crashing in the distance and the wind, “Why are you here?” Eyes with ice in them flicker over to the older male that does not seem to hear him. A frown begins to form until he notices the expression on his face, for the most part it is blank, a mask of peacefulness however there is a glint in the ever shifting eyes belonging to the Nightmare King. One that is almost feral, observing in silence as the deep reds slashes the night sky, staining it and causing even the stars to appear bloody. He does not say anything else and finds his attention moving from the sky to the male instead that has the lights dancing over his pale grey skin. 

“I wanted to see how you were doing with my gift.” The answer is so simple, and causes a scoff from the younger. 

Shaking his head, Jack sits up and turns to face Pitch, still keeping his distance though notices that the other does not seem to really notice. Or rather, it seems that he does not care about the shift. “Fine.” The conversation could have died right then and there, but he keeps going, unable to help himself and also wanting to get rid of that look. It reminds him of a completely different set of eyes, green ones and ones that look like the sun. “You don’t like the Northern Lights, do you?”

This question causes those eyes to snap to him, and peer into his glazed ones, and for a moment bits of fear claws at his throat. There is something lurking in that gaze, burning brighter than the lights above. Just as quick, it is gone, and Pitch replies, “Not when they look like this.” There is a story there, one that Jack actually finds himself wondering about. Though he does not voice it and goes back to looking at the sky, ready for another long string of silence before his odd companion says, “They remind me of a time when the sky always looked like this. Before there was a moon in the sky.” Jack’s attention snaps back to the ancient spirit, not at all expecting this information to be offered so freely.

“The moon wasn’t always there?” He does not mean for the question to slip out. Instead he was going to ignore the comment and continue to stare yet… The idea of knowing even a sliver more about this apparent King of Nightmares is hard to ignore. Not when he is being so confusing and so oddly kind to him. Especially when has proven to be deadly, his eyes were brighter than the sky above with shadows dancing deep within them just moments before. 

A smile forms, one that shows off needle-like teeth that seem to have more than one row, and he regrets asking in the first place, but is given an answer, “No. He wasn’t. It happened many years ago, the Guardians probably do not even realize, minus Sanderson.” 

Curiosity becomes too much, and the boy whispers, “What happened to make the moon appear?”

There is a shift and those eyes turn onto him once more, more gold than silver, and glowing under the red-streaked sky, “A battle. One that shook this world to the core, until even the Heavens above cried bloody tears, trailing across the stars and sky.” Then Pitch looks back up and finishes, “And at the end of it all, stood a victor who remained here while his brother, ashamed of betraying his only family and the blood that was spilled, left.” Jack says nothing more and turns his attention back to the sky, not daring to ask another question. Instead he and Pitch Black go into another silence, both in their own thoughts, watching the sky until the sun finally peeks over the horizon, promising a few short hours of sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long on this chapter, it was giving me some problems in trying to come up where for Jack and Pitch to bond and why. So... This just sort of happened. 
> 
> Also I figured this would be a good time to mention a little more about Pitch's past with Tsar. It's pretty detailed in my head so I don't know how much I'll get into it. If a lot are interested in it, I'll probably do a chapter on it of Pitch telling Jack what all happened or at least, most of it. If not, then it'll just be skimmed on.
> 
> Thank you for being so patient and waiting, darlings!


	8. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark thoughts happen on occasion for Jack. Usually little ideas that he can toss away as quickly as they appear.
> 
> However, on quiet nights with nobody for miles, he thinks that just maybe he could act on them.
> 
> And that thought terrifies him.

After the last meeting with Pitch Black under a bleeding sky, Jack finds that he does not really mind if the Nightmare King is near or not. He is indifferent towards the male, neither looking forward to or dismissing his presence. As usual, he has lost track of how many days it has been from the last meeting with the other spirit, moving on from North America to Europe. His wanderings are more eventful with the presence of the staff given to him. Though he is still wary of using it most of the time, or even forgets that it is in his hands, there are times he runs the tip across the trees to create lines of frost.

Never are they the masterpieces he has forged with creativity and excitement in the past but they are good enough. Little lines that have just the hint of fern leaves or swirls, and as the days go on, he does find himself getting a bit better. 

His mind is filled with many things as of late, a strange occurrence that leaves him losing more time than usual. Rather than the regular thoughts of wondering where to go, how to get there, if he should go home, his mind is focused on one person. He finds it hard not to think about Pitch Black, trying to understand why a male so high in the hierarchy of spirits would want to be near him. Not merely showing up and spending an entire night of watching the Northern Lights, the older being gave him the black staff. A gift that he still cannot make heads or tails out of. His mind has run over what it could mean and why he, a relatively lowly winter spirit, would or could catch the eye of someone who has been feared and respected for centuries. 

Still he does not have an answer.

A frustrating fact that makes him frown, brow furrowing as his thoughts spiral and only land on the same thought. That the only reason why a male such a being would seek him out is if there is an underlying motive. “But what…? What would he want with me?” The words accidentally leave frozen lips, the wind stirring the branches around then letting out a whistle in his ears. Sighing, he agrees with his old friend that it does not make sense nor will he most likely get a proper reasoning unless he asks Pitch himself. An idea that makes him vastly uncomfortable. 

In general talking is a task in itself, usually Jack only speaks to his friend and mostly in little sentences, murmurs really, that are never answered. Actually holding a conversation on the other hand, is difficult. Even more so, talking to the Nightmare King is daunting just in the few instances they have met, the regal mannerisms and formal talk make him feel like a peasant. Trying to ask the reasoning behind his kindness seems exhausting and rather pointless. 

After all, a King does not have to give him any reasoning. Or worse, the reasoning is one that will just remind him of too many things in the past. His hand goes to his chest and he presses down on where the hole is. In the back of his mind, though he would never admit it, he knows that Pitch could rip open the gaping wound further. A cold reality that has him picking up his pace toward the mountains, wanting to get lost in the snowy peaks and not think about things anymore. He wants to stop having these worries about Pitch Black, to stop pondering over why he suddenly has his attention.

Jack manages to get a few meters when there is a hole that appears in front of him, and he just catches himself, the wind wrapping him in a firm hold as a tall Pooka appears with narrowed green eyes. “There ya are. Why is a kid like you, hanging around Black?” 

All thoughts of the mentioned male go blank and glazed blue eyes dull as they stare at the Easter Bunny. He ponders what to do, considering just continuing towards the French Alps but he gets the feeling that no matter where he goes, he will be followed. Slowly he urges his friend to place him into a high tree, and stares at the ears of the spring spirit, thinking, then shrugs. “I don’t.”

“Don’t be saying nonsense like that, North saw ya and Black being all cozy just a week ago!” Pale fingers tighten around the grip on his staff, listening but rapidly finding this conversation exhausting. “So I’ll ask again, why are you around him? He’s bad news, and is going to mess up your already muddled little head.” The insult is enough for a high pitched hiss to leave his friend that claws at the tree branches hanging overhead. They creak dangerously under the assault and is enough for Bunnymund to go tense though Jack reaches out with his free hand, wanting to calm the agitated Northern wind. While he would not mind having a few branches possibly hit or hurt this male, he knows in the long run it will only cause more of the Guardians to come visit him. 

He is labeled an unstable spirit as it is.

It takes a few seconds for words to form, and Jack is not even sure if they are decent enough for an explanation though he does not have much else to go on. “He follows me sometimes.” Saying the truth is easy but when he sees a bitter look, he braces himself for the next words.

He is hardly disappointed in their harsh nature, “He follows you and ya just allow him?! You had no issues in attacking me and the other Guardians with a blizzard!” Biting back the stress creeping up, he swallows, and goes to point out that he really had not meant to, but cannot get the out before Bunnymund is talking again. “You’re becoming more and more dangerous as time goes on, Frost. The last time we approached you, it was to see what the issue was, and why you keep messing up everyone else’s holiday. Now, we’re hearing and seeing you with Pitch Black?” A glare is thrown in his direction and the sparks of anger begin to bubble in his mind though he holds it back as best he can, hands beginning to shake.

“I didn’t ask him to.” The words are above a whisper though just barely, and he takes in a few breaths, the cool air suddenly too warm, scorching the back of his throat. Still, he does his best to remain calm and opens his mouth when the Pooka snaps, fur bristling.

“Well you’re not exactly sending him away now are you! That’s suspicious behavior right there, mate. And trust me when I say that doesn’t look too good for you.” Confusion flickers on his face and there is a scoff and the rabbit folds his arms. “You’ve already shown yourself to be a killer, Frost.”

For a moment, everything goes silent for Jack, his cold blood rushing through his ears at the last sentence and his mind goes blank. There is blissful silence from his thoughts and worries, and more importantly this Guardian but it all comes rushing back too fast. The next thing he is aware of is slamming his staff into the throat of the spring spirit, sending himself and the much bigger male into the snow. There is a grunt and paws go to shove him away but he is immovable, the ice melting away from his eyes to show a pair of brilliant blue eyes. He glares down at the male, lips curling back into a snarl, and presses the staff harder. “A killer?” The words flow, faster than water or wind. “You think that I’m a killer? When I was the one that was constantly being tortured and ridiculed for hundreds of years?” His shoulders shake and he cannot register the rapid drop in temperatures around them, razor-sharp anger filling his entire being. 

“I didn’t CHOOSE to be this, I was made to be this. This is what all of you wanted, nobody wants winter spirits, nobody _likes_ winter spirits. We exist because we are forced to, not because we wished to or were chosen to.” The words begin to break as they fly, his throat constricting, too unused to handle what all he wants to say, but Jack is determined. He refuses to simply be thought of as someone similar to the Wendigo or General Winter. Fingernails dig into the staff, cracking them, blood beginning to pool underneath as his teeth grind together, staring into the hard but wide eyes of the Easter Bunny. Bunnymund shoves at the boy, trying to get him off and more importantly away but with the help of the wind, he is met with constant resistance, his limbs aching with the effort.

Around them, the once very light snow, has turned into a hailstorm, ice falling painfully onto the back of Jack who does not feel the possible bruises beginning to form. Rage is boiling over in manners he has not felt in a long time, and he fights to keep it in check, whole body shaking with the effort. His voice is low, rough in his throat as he whispers, “I am not a killer. Do not ever call me that again, not when you don’t know anything.” In the next moment he is off of the male and turns away, quickly moving in the direction he had been with a racing mind. His hands will not stop shaking, fingers continuing to bleed onto the staff as he focuses on just getting away.

While there is anger that is warming him in ways he has not felt in years, there is also something else. Lurking under the surface that is making him fearful and panic threatens to overtake him. He hears words being shouted after him but cannot take in their meanings, only hearing a voice and nothing more.

Because for a moment, just a split second, he thought about it. 

The idea of holding the staff with all his strength against the spirit of Easter’s throat ran through his mind. Keeping it there, even against the death throes and struggling, until the light in green eyes faded into nothing.

Jack walks for as long as he can, until he is well into the mountains and finally his legs buckle and he is left sitting there, trembling. For once in his long life, he feels cold in a manner he never has and pulls his legs up to his chest, burying his face into his knees and for once in a long while, wishes he could just be swallowed up by the earth. That he is capable of thinking of such an act, willing to actually murder someone is enough for his unclouded eyes to fill with tears that never fall. Though he has accepted that he is a winter spirit, meant to cause pain and spread cold around, the idea of actually being like all the rest… That he can be a monster like them, it scares him. He has had such ideas before, but they are usually little flickers on the corners of his mind, scraping against the walls of his head. Never have they been so easy to think.

The wind is around him, letting out little whines and concerned whistles, petting at his hair as he stays in his tight ball, the tears in his eyes freezing into their usual glazed appearance. It is only with the constant urging and touches of his friend that he finally whispers, “I don’t want to be a monster, wind.” There is silence, then he wrapped up in a comforting embrace that does little to actually ease Jack. 

Unseen to the winter spirit are a pair of gold-silver eyes watching from nearby, listening to the fragile words. The ancient spirit does not approach, but examines and ponders, a silent observer with a long scythe coated in blood in his clawed hands. Behind him lay a group of Fey, natives to these mountains and eager to kill any that are not their kind. All lay dying in the crisp snow, their dark blue blood staining the white as few manage their last breathes before passing on. The rest of the frost Fey stay huddled in their caves, understanding the silent warning in front of them. 

Jack Frost is not to be touched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the most part this chapter wrote itself out. I wasn't really expecting Jack to have such a violent reaction to Bunnymund but, when it comes to anxiety, depression and being cornered or threatened, anything is possible. 
> 
> Things will be getting better, but while there are chapters of progress such as the last one, there are also going to be chapters like this or where Jack takes almost a full step back in the wrong direction. I want to try and keep this as realistic as I can, after all, one cannot get over centuries of hurt and not have setbacks. Thank you for reading though darlings.


	9. A Bloody Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has never really dawned on Jack that there are others that are similar to him.
> 
> Who just perhaps.... Just maybe, have suffered more than he has.

The next few hours, or perhaps days, Jack stays in that little ball on the side of a cold mountain with only the wind for company. He finds himself too tired to get up, exhausted in manners he has not felt in years, and finds it is easier to stay where he is. Often he falls into a dreamless sleep, fitful in trying to find proper rest and the same words echoing through his mind. Words that he tries his best to ignore and push them away only for them to come back with vengeance. Rattling in his skull, only causing his shoulders to further slump from the burden being placed on them. The reminder that he is considered a killer cuts him deeper than he would ever admit.

Really the winter spirit is content to stay where he is until there is a voice speaking to him. One that he recognizes and tries his best to ignore, squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes of remaining ignorant to the world around him. A hand rests on his upper back, and again a voice speaks only this time he hears what is being said, “Wake up.”

Though he would much rather remain dozing, it is hard to ignore when the hand is insistent and finally he opens his eyes. Everything is hazy and it is only after a few firm blinks does he finally see the world as he is used to, blurred. He turns his gaze upwards and makes out a pair of gold-silver eyes peering down at him, the Nightmare King before him with a small frown. With a sigh, he closes his eyes again and turns away, wanting to ignore the world again even if it comes knocking. “Jack.” He presses his face into his arms, fingers that have frozen blood on them curling into the snow and around the staff. “Jack. You must get up.” Not moving, he hopes that if he is unresponsive, rude, then the regal being in front of him will leave him alone. Will go away so that he can just remain on this mountain for the next few days until he gathers up enough energy to at last move on. A hand shakes his shoulder, firmer than before and is enough for him to look over to him, a scowl threatening to form on the winter sprite’s face. 

“Why?” His voice cracks and he stares up, feeling defiant, angry, that he is not being left alone.

Pitch stares down at him, then responds, “You need to wake up.” 

He cannot help but snap in response, clenching his fingers tight into fists and ignoring the stings in his fingertips, “I don’t need to do anything.” This has an eyebrow raising upwards before the being before him suddenly takes a seat in front of him. A move that has his eyes widening and staring hard at this spirit, surprised that he would kneel in the snow. “Why are you here, Pitch?” 

“I wish to be, and you shouldn’t be alone.” He stares, not entirely certain what to do or think in this situation. Being along with the exception of his long time friend is what happens to winter spirits, it is how it has always been as far as he knows. Wendigos rarely seek their own kind out unless for mating or if they are in pairs, General Winter makes his rounds through the battlefield with nothing more than his axe, and the Snow Queen never leaves her icy castle. He starts to point this out, but the words barely leave his mouth when he is cut off, “You’re not like them, Jack Frost. The spirits of your element you claim to be like, are an entirely different breed of sprites.” A frown forms as he slowly sits up, snow sticking to his hair and shirt as he listens to what all is being said, “They are meant to show the dangerous element of winter, the death, the cold that comes from your season. You however, are not at all like them, and are here to present the beauty of gentle snowfalls and frost designs.” 

Something stirs in the base of his stomach but he firmly ignores it and shakes his head, unable to help the scoff. “Nobody likes me like that. At least when I’m this, I’m left alone. Or I was.” He tries to glare, but finds it is difficult to, the pain in his chest feeling off than what he is accustomed to. The hole is still there, as it always has been, but something tugs on the edges, but rather than it hurting it feels almost comforting. 

Pitch seems to think about his words, his lips peeling back to show needle-like teeth, “Many of the spirits around are ignorant, and cannot understand anything beyond their duties.”

Words are flowing easier for him, not as stilted in his throat as more emotions bubble up from some forgotten well in his mind, “And yet you can.” The statement is dull as he challenges this King of Nightmares. Jack cannot see how this being has so much knowledge over his feelings and actions, let alone the reasons why others of their kind are so cruel. 

“Yes, I can.” Before he can further argue with the words, the other continues, “Because I have been in a situation similar to yourself.” 

This grabs his attention and he eyes the tall spirit up and down. “You have…?” 

A smile, one that shows off the sharp teeth, a humorless one before he gets a reply, “If you want, I will tell you a story.” Hesitating, only for a moment, before the young spirit gives a nod, curiosity high, “I was not always as I am now. Once I was younger, and less… Grim. I had a brother.” Jack nearly reels back with the idea of the Nightmare King having any type of kin, let alone a brother. 

His reaction causes a chuckle and Pitch continues, “Surprised I see. Tsar, was his name. He was… Wonderful. Impossibly bright and was the sun on this realm, always offering warmth and comfort. Even to myself.” Already Pitch finds himself getting lost in his memories of so long ago, face becoming thoughtful as he recalls those days so far in the past. A male with white hair and eyes that were the colors of the sunset, yellows, oranges and pinks all mixing into one another. “He was the light, and I was the dark. For centuries we worked in sync, a balance for the world as other spirits began to form, the beliefs and ideas of humans bringing them into existence.” Jack remains silent, enthralled by the tale, now completely relaxed in his seat, his grip loosening on his staff as he takes in all the words. For one reason or another, the cloudiness within his eyes begins to clear, bit by bit as a terrible sensation bubbles up in his body. 

“Tsar was looked as a mentor, all those who met him adored him and saw him as an idol. Revered and loved, the first centuries of this he took in stride, taking all under his wing while remaining humble.” A colder look begins to form, lips pressing together into a thin line before he continues, “I watched from the shadows, only showing myself when all others were gone. My brother and I still had a strong bond however it slowly began to deteriorate. He began to see me less, talk to me less, his eyes which were once so warm became wary, hesitant.” With a sigh, the Nightmare King closes his eyes, expression smoothing into marble, blank and unmovable.

The winter sprite stares, the ice in his eyes cracking further the more he does so and blinks at the story, before he whispers, “What happened, Pitch…?” 

A laugh, unfeeling and bitter leaves the male who says, simply, “He betrayed me. Listened to the whispers of those around him, moved by their endless praise and affection, forgetting who he was in the mean time. Tsar grew prideful, feeling himself to be superior to all others, including myself.” Reopening his eyes, Jack tries not to flinch at the quick-silver eyes that glow harsh in the faint sunlight as the sky turns into twilight. “He took me by surprise, smiling with those damned eyes of his. They were gentle again, warm, like they used to be. I thought he had done thinking, that just perhaps I had my brother back, that he took in my words and realized I was being truthful when I assured him I would never hurt him. We were balance after all, the same coin just two different sides.” The shadows become longer, weaving in intricate designs on the snow, thin, blades that lash as the words grow darker, the Nightmare King’s body going through a change as well. “He stabbed me.” A hand now armed with claws taps against his chest, right under the heart.

“You…. Had a hole too?” Jack hesitates then places a hand over where his gaping wound is, covering it and whispers, “I have one here.” 

Pitch examines him then gives a slow nod, keeping his finger right over the gnarled and twisted white scar that has never left his skin. “Yes. I did. In some regards, I still do. He wanted it to be quick, hoping that I would not suffer, and explained in hushed words that it would be for the best. Without darkness, everyone would be happier, woes, war and perhaps even death would cease to exist without me.” His lips turn upwards into a humorless smile, “Only my brother had forgotten one small detail…. You see, neither of us can die. Even by each other’s hands, it is impossible. We were the first, are the first, of the spirits, to kill me would upset the very balance of this realm. Without that everything would eventually fall apart.” His eyes turn upwards to the moon as it makes its slow, sad rise into the sky. “I was furious.” 

For a moment he gets lost in the memories, recalling the pain, then the anguish and finally the rage that rippled through his body when the shock wore off. The eyes the color of sunset peering into his own, mourning, grief, yet a grim determination radiating within them. Pitch did not even think, sinking his jagged nails into the skin of his brother, breaking his arm and clawing at the flesh, leaving horrible claw marks. The blade had been in his chest for the whole battle, pain pulsing throughout his entire body but he did not rip it out, using the blade to remind himself why he was attacking his own kin. The one spirit he always loved and put first, sometimes even beyond his own well-being and ideas.

“The battle is still remembered by those old enough. The sky ripped open and bleeding for all to see, crying as two brothers fought. Tsar tried calling upon the stars for aid in the darkness of the night only to get those bloody tears in response.” Taking in a deep breath and forcing his eyes back open, he keeps going as he peers into Jack’s, noting that the glazed eyes are no more, tears sluggishly running down frozen cheeks. “As I said, I could not kill him no more than he could kill me. I did the only thing I could think of through my pain and anger, to banish him.” His eyes move upwards to stare at the sky, to the pale orb in the sky. “I forced him off this world and into the sky only to be seen in pure darkness, the very thing he wanted to get rid of. Now he sits there, the only beacon of light in a sea of night.” The tale done, he lets out a long sigh then turns his attention onto Jack who takes in the moon that is so clear in the sky now. 

Reaching out, taking his time and being careful, he wipes the tears from Jack’s face, startling him, though Pitch gives a slow smile, one that is softer than the last one. “And that, Jack Frost, is how I know and understand.” Finally he is able to take in the true eye color of the winter spirit, clear blue that is brilliant, nearly glowing in the moonlight. A sight, that Pitch decides he will see again. He is determined to permanently rid of the ice that always clouds the boy’s gaze so he can see the world clearly, and look beyond the ache in his chest. Something he vows in silence to do underneath his brother who is nothing more than a silent spectator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that a lot of you wanted to see the backstory on Pitch and Tsar, so I decided to finally include it, and this chapter pretty much wrote itself.
> 
> I suppose you could say this is a bit of a turning point for Jack, in the matter of him trusting Pitch more. He will still have a few steps in the wrong direction, but I'll get into that later.
> 
> I hope that you all enjoyed!


	10. Faded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the pain and fear that always bubbles in his chest leaving him paralyzed, Jack never thought he could find anything else. 
> 
> Yet, the thought of peace, even just for a few seconds, is too hard to deny. 
> 
> He just never thought he would find it because of someone else.

“What do you fear?” The question comes after what must be hours of sitting underneath the moon, as it travels further and further down the sky. Dawn is nearly upon them but the young spirit finds he does not really care and blinks, refocusing his eyes onto the male next to him. Pitch watches him with a calmness that he is beginning to see as a sort of mask. Even though his face might hold little more than a polite expression, there are many things going within his ever shifting eyes. “Jack, what do you fear?” Again he is asked and this time he actually ponders the words. 

Too many things begin to fill his head, the once peacefulness in his mind slipping away, as it always does when he begins to get too comfortable. When he starts to think that he can let his guard down, that his thoughts will actually settle down, the ones he wants to ignore the most scrape against his conscious with jagged knives. Closing his eyes, he rests his chin on top of folded knees, staring ahead but not seeing the sky or anything, ice glazing over his eyes. “A lot of things.” Not entirely sure if he answers due to feeling too beaten down to ignore this spirit, or hearing the story about how there was a hole in Pitch’s chest, Jack finds he cannot care. After all, it is not as though his strange companion can do much more damage to his already brittle, cracked mind. A tension is beginning to wind in his body at such a question, not wanting to discuss it. 

It is not as though it will change much of anything, no matter what he says his fears will still plague him.

In his conscious and unconscious, always swirling just a touch away, laughing at him. Bright and dark, dull and blinding, they snicker when the wind is quiet and he is trying to sleep, visiting just before his eyes slip shut. Only to follow him into his dreams that become filled with bloody leaves and crumpled flower petals.

Pitch glances from the corner of his eye to the winter spirit, seeing that he seems to be caught up in his own thoughts. Silvery eyes turn forward again, pursing his lips together in thought. “Can you give an example?”

Shrugging, the boy responds, but with words he does not mean to let slip out, “Fading away.” He stops and clamps his teeth together, hard enough to be heard by the elder who turns his eyes onto him. The tension begins to weigh on his mind and he wants to leave again, to run away from this mountain and go sleep for a thousand years. Even though, a tiny part whispers that if he did that, his fear would come true. After all, what kind of spirit can survive and still be sane after a millennium with such dreams that plague him?

Curious over the odd answer, the Nightmare King ponders over what he has just been told. In some manners he can understand such feelings, but he hardly expected this to be the main fear belonging to Jack Frost. Even if the boy will not admit it, the air is heavy and thick, tasting of bitter ashes and tears, a quiet confirmation. “Is that what you feel on most days? Rather than being ignored, or feeling a heavy burden on your shoulders?” Jack digs cracked fingernails into the torn legs of his pants, staring harder at nothing. Rather than dropping the subject or let him get away so easily, Pitch decides to push, gently, not wanting to overwhelm the boy, “Your silence neither bothers or deters me, I am beyond patient.”

Something begins to snap inside the sprite, held by just a string and he glares hard at the male, upset and angry at him. 

Angry that he is trying to hard to talk to him, to make things better when there is no such thing. There is nothing warm or beautiful for a winter spirit, there is only loneliness with the company of crunching snow and howling wind. 

Upset because he does not see what possibly benefit there could be to talking to the likes of him. Some sad little wisp of a spirit that can barely do anything but cause destruction and pain. Who is not even sound of mind and has a gaping hole where a heart is supposed to go. 

“Why does it matter so much to you?” The question has Pitch turning his attention onto his companion, taking in the trembling frame of the younger as he keeps glaring with blazing eyes. 

“Why shouldn’t it? Why should I be like the rest of those you have come into contact with?” Silver eyes soften, “What do you mean by fading away?”

Jack blinks, his fierce expression melting away for a moment before it is back, perhaps even stronger as he is standing with his back to the setting moon as he stares down the elegant figure in front of him. “It doesn’t matter, that’s just how I feel, that’s just how it IS.” Suddenly he is moving, though he finds it hard to even keep up with his own wobbling steps and the words just spill from his mouth. “There are some days where I feel things are okay, that I can exist like this, on the edge, away from everyone, watching winter take its course. Watching humans die, animals freeze, plants lose their leaves, the only thing that my season does. It kills, it causes frustration and sadness, that is what I AM!” He yells the last part and reaches up, running a hand through his hair as the tears he thought he was done with come all over again, flooding and running down his cheeks. 

“Then there are the other days. The days when it’s quiet, when there is such a stillness to everything and I find myself thinking, at first for a few seconds that I’m dead again. I can shrug it off, but when that loud silence is all around me, when it doesn’t leave I realize that I don’t mean much of anything.” He stops mid-pacing and goes still, no longer staring at Pitch or anything, eyelids tiredly falling over his eyes, “I could disappear right now. And do you know what would be said, Pitch? Do you know what everyone would whisper behind closed doors?” He does not wait for an answer and spins around, snow kicking up as he glares at the pale orb in the sky. His voice cracks as he snarls, splintering but he does not care, determined. “ _Good riddance_. He was such a pest and a murderer of all things, he should have been taken care of long ago! A monster, that’s what Jack Frost was, that’s all he ever has been, just like the rest of his damned kind, and that is all he ever WILL BE!” The last words echo down the mountain, repeating over and over as he stands there, facing away from the Nightmare King, feeling drained yet unable to stop the tears falling down his face as he stares at the moon. 

His throat throbs, voice useless for now, the words spoken more than he has ever said at once, even before everything happened. Reaching up with shaking hands, he covers his face and starts to sink back to the ground when an arm slips around his waist. Startled, he twists around, confusion flooding his eyes as he meets Pitch’s gaze until he is pulled against the Nightmare King. His breathing catches in his throat, frozen, as the arm around him stays where it is and another hand reaches up to stroke his hair. 

“I would not say those things, Jack.” 

Air freezes in his lungs and he does not know what to do, lower lip quivering as fingers keep running through his white locks. Wanting to be able to latch onto the comfort being so freely offered, he does not even think about it, and wraps his arms around a strong neck and buries his face into a warm shoulder. Tears continue without his permission as he basks in the hold the Nightmare King has around him. 

For the first time in he cannot recall how long, he can feel the beginnings of warmth around him, and rather than being smothering or terrifying, it is gentle in a way he cannot explain. In a way he is not entirely sure he has ever felt beyond the embraces the Northern wind offers him, and while he appreciates his longtime companion, it cannot compare to this. Gripping onto the midnight colored cloak, he presses as close as he can manage and whispers into the cloth, “I’m a monster, I don’t deserve this.” 

Pitch keeps the younger spirit close, resting his chin on top of snow white hair, continuing to pet down the messing strands as he watches the beginnings of color beginning to paint the sky. “No, you merely have been made to believe that is what you are from years of neglect and trauma, Jack.” He debates for a long moment then says, in front of his brother that gives a weak pulse of light, “I’ll show you that you are not one.”

“Why…?” The word is fragile, hardly audible against his shoulder. 

“Because nobody was there to show me I was not one when it could have made a difference.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellllll.... This was actually supposed to be a happier chapter compared to the others. But Jack got upset, and it doesn't help I've been listening to a song that rather fits this story for the past two hours. 
> 
> So he wanted to get everything out, and I just let him.
> 
> I'm sorry for the wait. Oceanic Depths really took off and has been so much fun to write, I needed it to get away from the heavy themes in this story. But now I think I can start to update this one more frequently since better times are ahead.
> 
> Hopefully next chapter will be longer, I felt that the end of this was a good place to leave this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, darlings.


End file.
